The pendulum is a bull shark.
The hour of the savior is a pregnant bride's swan dive into the water.
The mighty mile is a figure 8 in the scoot of
non slop socks across the bare linoleum.
Blood and bright are the redness of the blanket.
divine terror at one hart beat per hour.
Finger nails green and black against a back drop
of the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen;
deep pools of liquid light that will shine when least expected.
And the obligation isn't one at all,
for when i breath in,
you breath out.
And when I gave consent 1000 years ago times 10-
you performed the exorcism under the shroud of my amnesia
and the spotted light from a crystal disco ball.
Shards of light moved upon the face of all the space between the stars.
My heart was in the highlands but now its in your hands.

angel tears fill rivers full
and pull bulls full/
of broken bones and stones
oh, how Perillos shone
pledged life to the throne
Cruel, merciless Rome/
and fell to his death
with one last shuddering breath
said,
"they'll **** you yet"

boys are mindless, they're like bulls

they see two flags, one that's being tossed around violently in the air and one that is being fluttered about gently
they are used to the one that flutters, they've seen it being waved violently, that's how it first got their attention. but the violent wave can only last so long, the matador will eventually get tired of violently waving the flag and it will get used to the bull's temper and only wave it violently when it needs to
the bull takes longer to recognise that just because the matador is fluttering the flag, doesn't mean that the violent wave is gone. it's just being kept for when it is needed most. so the bull, only being drawn to what the surface level shows, leaves the fluttering flag and the matador and charges towards the violently flowing flag.

but, little does the bull know that that flag will soon end up fluttering too because no flag waves violently forever and when the bull realises this, they will realise the mistake they made when they left the first matador and run to the flag that has a sword hidden underneath.

You are a series of red flashing fabrics and I am a Matador thrusting myself into you over and over and over again

I know it is nothing but pain and embarrassment and yet it’s so natural to me to proceed with these actions

You are a red flag I can spot from a mile away glistening your sequins in my face and I cannot stop but ram my face into yours

I know you bring me no satisfaction and I know I will never win against you in these battles and yet it’s so natural for me to hurt myself for you

As I see on imvu
Another
Teenager
Calls me Demeaning names
Fighting words
And claims to have had
Relations
With my love
I know this is a
Pile to split us apart
Not happening.

An uncompassionate crowd of 20,000
are tensely sitting in a stadium
bloodthirstily waiting for a cruel spectacle
they call a ‘bulllfight’
which is actually a ‘bull-harass-and-****’.
This brutal bloodsport
is celebrated as a national artform
in Spain
so the matadors (bullfighters) strut around proudly
in their suits of golden thread
to loud cheers and excited applause.

The bull, frightened suffering,
is harassed and killed in three stages:

The first stage is called ‘tercio de varas’
‘the lancing third’
when armoured-horse mounted lancers
use a long sharp lance
to spear the bull behind his shoulder muscles
to weaken the bull’s neck muscles
and begin the bull’s loss of blood;

The second stage is called ‘tercio de banderillas’
‘the third of banderillas’
when the matador attacks the bleeding-weakening bull
with banderillas (sharp barbed sticks)
stabbing the banderillas above the shoulder blades of the bull
to anger and agitate
the frightened bull fighting for his life.

The third stage is called ‘tercio de muerte’
‘the third of death’
when the matador baits the bull
with a red cape
then stabs the bull with a steel sword
aiming for his heart
but often missing
leaving the bull suffering multiple stab-wounds
bleeding, slowly miserably dying.

I wonder
when will this barbaric bull-harass-and-****
be banned in all nations?

This, the generation
Of the Trampling Bull,
The trodding of the Crop,
The headlong raging run,
With never any stop.

Having pulled the stakes,
Dragging tethers;
Pawing unchecked,
Throwing clods above his withers;

Fence posts falling,
The corners cave.

Town boys chase him
With sticks,
Unable to check or to drive
His rampant run,
O'er suffering fields.

Where are the men
Who'll come to force him,
Bellowing,
Back into civility?

Where are the men?